


put me in your pocket

by comefeedtherainn



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, M/M, another case of I Had Feelings And Wrote A Ficlet About It, because what's canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25580824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn
Summary: It's hard to remember anything after your dying childhood friend chokes out, around a throat full of blood, that he fucked your mom and your first thought is "oh, no. I think I love him."
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 130





	put me in your pocket

"Holy shit. You fuckin' bullied it to death."

"Shut the fuck up, Eds," Richie breathes to hide the way his heart climbs into his throat hearing that voice, thank fuck, thank fuck. He drops to his knees, holding onto Eddie's face with both hands and forgetting to remember the armor of irreverence that he straps to his own back despite its overwhelming weight. It's hard to remember anything after your dying childhood friend chokes out, around a throat full of blood, that he fucked your mom and your first thought is  _ oh, no. I think I love him. _

_ " _ S'it bad?" Eddie slurs, his eyes a little unfocused, and Richie lets out a weird, hoarse noise in his throat.

"Yeah, it's fuckin' bad," he snaps, slipping his arms underneath Eddie's knees and shoulders and hefting him into his arms. "Jesus, you weigh like two pounds."

"There's'hole in me, now. Prob'ly 'least five pounds off."

"Jesus, Eddie, will you just-"

"Guys, we need to go!" Mike calls tensely, and as Richie looks over his shoulder at him he sees that ah, yeah, the place is coming down around them, a bit. He gets to his feet, ignoring how his knees protest with the extra weight in his arms and flincihing as chunks of rock start to crumble dangerously near.

"Go, go!" someone shouts, and the Losers begin to run. 

Richie realizes belatedly that he's never run with a person in his arms before, and even more belatedly that he really should have worked out more in his twenties, as he hauls ass after his friends back up through the well house and toward the light of the front door. He nearly eats pavement on his way down the steps but manages to stay on his feet, stumbling into the street and turning in time to see the old house collapse in on itself with a terrible crash and a plume of dust. The group of them stare for a moment, the only sound being of the house still shifting and the cavern below still crumbling apart, alongside each of them panting heavily. They were still fucking breathing, so Richie supposes that's something. Could be-

"Fuck," he declares, looking down at Eddie, whose bleeding chest is now moving only minutely, his skin a pale white. "Hospital," Richie continues intelligently, looking up at the others. "Hospital!"

"I'll call an ambulance," says Bev, dialing with shaking fingers still covered in grime.

With nothing else to do, Richie sits on the curb, holding Eddie in his arms and unwilling to let him go for anything. Would take all the evil fucking clowns in the universe to tear him away. He tries not to be too afraid of Eddie's shallow breathing, how his eyes are closed and he looks so, so pale, the blood soaking him now staining Richie's pants and shirt and hands, too, but he doesn't let go. A car horn sounds nearby, and Eddie's eyes crack open, still hazy and unfocused, his breath coming hoarse.

"Did I die yet?"

"No," Richie snorts, petting Eddie's hair and for once, not giving a fuck who notices. "You stupid piece of shit."

"Mm."

"You're gonna be fine," Richie says more gently, frowning a bit. "You're fine. Just...you're fine. Be quiet."

"Mmm."

The ambulance comes, and Richie has a wild urge to hold Eddie tighter to his chest when a paramedic reaches out. He gets over it within a second, though, and he lets them take Eddie away. He watches until the vehicle has disappeared around the corner, before he finally hears someone calling his name, calling for him to leave the past behind. He's not sure he knows how to do that, but he turns away anyway.

* * *

Eddie lives. Somehow. Richie's not quite sure he believes it, spends nearly all of the first night after Eddie’s surgery staring at the monitor just waiting for a flatline, but it doesn't come. Eddie also doesn’t wake, which drives Richie up a fucking wall, until late on the third night. Richie is still up when it happens, because what the fuck is sleep, and he chucks the boring as fuck magazine he’d been pretending to read across the room when he sees Eddie’s eyes are open to slits.

“Eds. Eds,” he breathes, dropping to his knees beside the bed and pushing Eddie’s hair back and away from his eyes so he can see them better. “You there?”

Eddie makes a quiet noise in his throat, then opens his eyes more fully, and they’re clear and focused when they lock onto Richie’s. He quirks the corner of his mouth in a crinkly smile.

“Stop fucking calling me Eds.”

Richie laughs weakly, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and squeezing carefully, his free hand cupping the back of Eddie’s head, holding him close like he might disappear.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ .”

They hug for several minutes, Richie’s heart unclenching and slowing as more minutes roll by, until he finally lets Eddie go and helps him carefully settle back.

“How you feeling?” he asks, trying to sound casual, which means he has to throw in a “dumbass” at the end.

“Like total shit, thanks,” Eddie grunts, readjusting himself with a wince. “Better than dead. Probably.”

“Not funny,” Richie frowns. Every time he closes his eyes all he sees is Eddie’s wide, terrified eyes, the way he’d whimpered his name like he was asking for Richie to save him, to do something, the hot spray of Eddie’s blood on his face-

“Rich? Hello?”

Richie blinks, the image melting away, and grabs Eddie’s hand. “What?”

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“What else is new?”

Eddie snorts, because there’s no argument to be had, there. He doesn’t pull his hand out of Richie’s, so Richie keeps holding on, rubbing his thumb slowly, rhythmically over the healing scrapes on Eddie’s knuckles.

“The others still here?”

“Yeah. It’s the middle of the night,” says Richie. “They’ll be back in the morning.”

“It’s the middle of the night? The fuck you doing here?”

Richie’s face burns. “Fuck if I know.”

Silence, for a few moments.

“So. We did it,” says Eddie.

“Sure did,” says Richie, though he doesn’t feel safe. Doubts he ever will. Holding Eddie’s hand helps, but...well, that’s a temporary solution. A very short-lived solution. He’s pretty sure he’s got oxy or her cousin morphine to thank for the fact that Eddie still hasn’t pulled away.

“Hopefully I’m not laid up too long,” Eddie sighs, flipping his hand over and just letting Richie trace patterns into his palm. Just lets him do it. “I have to get back to work.”

Richie nods, his eyes on the way Eddie’s palm compresses underneath his fingertips, his hand soft and, for once, warm. Usually they’re icicles. Richie’s paid very close attention to them every time they’ve accidentally brushed up against his arm or leg, so he knows this for a fact.

“When are you planning on heading back?” Eddie asks.

Richie shrugs, his heart clenching at the idea of going back to his life now. He didn’t really like it all that much to begin with but now, now that he remembers Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, he’s not sure he’ll like it at all. Being alone had always felt like a personal choice - he was too busy, too introverted, he liked his space - but now it feels like he was waiting for someone who existed in the periphery of his memory. Someone who had left behind a hole filled with static, or cobwebs, or fog that he couldn’t traverse. And now here they are in technicolor, and he can’t grab on for more than a few minutes. Not enough time, it wasn’t enough time.

“Richie?”

"I have an idea," Richie says with false bravado, looking anywhere but Eddie's eyes. "What if I just never, ever let you go again? Ever?"

It's silent for several moments, and Richie would have screamed if he wasn't so busy holding his breath and staring at the wall.

"...what if I have to piss?"

"I-you-I fucking hate you so  _ much,  _ man."

Eddie laughs, wheezing a bit and pressing a hand to his bandages with a mirthful wince. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, before reaching and placing that palm on Richie’s cheek. This one is colder than the one Richie has warmed with his own, but it feels nice. He presses into it, closing his eyes.

“Don’t let go, then,” Eddie continues, as if it’s simple, and Richie opens his eyes. Eddie’s eyes arm soft and warm, his palm is still pressed to Richie’s cheek, who swallows thickly.

“Okay,” he murmurs, before leaning forward to kiss him as carefully as he can. 


End file.
